The Chained Skylark's Tale
by The Dream Whisperer
Summary: “Humans are stupid creatures – give them a little power, give them someone to lord over and they will remain your obedient slaves." Hibari Kyouya- no, Ofdino as a Handmaid in Gilead; fusion with Handmaid's Tale. Genderswitch, dystopia AU. Some DinoHibari.
1. Part 1 of 2

This is a fairly odd fic. I'll take a gamble and say that this is a fic that you probably has never seen the likes of before. It's screwed up and set in a dystopian world where Hibari is a woman and basically enslaved to Dino. If you want to know about this world, check out the Wikipedia article on 'The Handmaid's Tale'. It explains more than I ever can.

Despite the strangeness: enjoy.

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**The Chained Skylark's Tale   
**_[Part 1 of 2]_

**Character/Pairings: **Female!Hibari, Dino, Yamamoto, Chrome, female!Gokudera. Mentions of Tsuna and Lal Mirch; Dino/fem!Hibari, implied Tsuna/Chrome and Xanxus/Gokudera.**  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Words: **2109**  
Summary: **"And when Rachel saw that she bare Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die." The life in Gilead as a Handmaid, as told by Hibari Kyouya Ofdino; a crossover/fusion with Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.**  
Warnings:** GENDERSWITCH, AU, dystopian world, crack that refuses to stay as crack

_i. Monopoly_

I let myself into the room. I'm not supposed to - there are a lot of things that I'm restricted from - but he has broken the rules already and I try to rebel as much as I can. Even when chained, I can still move; can still strain.

The Commander is seated behind his desk. There's an ashtray on the table - my eyes are drawn to it and I think how easy it will be to brain him with it. It looks heavy, made of ceramic and none of it is plastic. His skull will crack, I think, blood and brain matter flowing into blond hair, muting that disgusting colour.

But I have been careless; he notices my gaze. His finger moves the ashtray away, into a drawer and I take note of it, slot the information inside my mind. He is my ringmaster, and I intend to break him; break my chains.

"Won't you take a seat?" He still sounds guilty, but I ignore it. He deserves any guilt he gets. It's his fault that I'm here.

I remain standing behind the chair, defiant as much I can be while I still want to survive. But he is soft as always and simply smiles. My hand clenches, but I take a breath, relaxing them because I can't even afford that little luxury, not nowadays. My eyes scan the room, but he is not a stupid man - unfortunate, really - and there are no weapons.

But there is still that ashtray. I linger at the shadow of it, hidden within the drawers. My fingers inch for the taste for metal.

"Sit down," he says again, and this time there is steel in his voice; a different sort of metal that I don't crave. I press my lips together. I want to rebel, I want to refuse, I want him to die, I want to escape.

I want a lot of things.

But now I simply sit down, legs tucked in and skirt pressed flat against my skin. The cloth is rough, stifling, and for a moment I think of wrapping the red cloth around his neck and pulling until he is blue in the face, choking and begging for mercy. I like these thoughts.

They make me feel a little more in control.

He smiles at me, a filthy stretch of the lips and my fingers twitch. It is a repulsive sign of weakness. I fold them in, fingernails pressing against my palm and it is through the pain that I frown. My face remains impassive; I am unwilling to show weaknesses.

It doesn't matter. He makes the rules here, and I have to follow them because I want to survive. (Death clips my wings permanently, and I don't intend to die. To die is not to be free; to be free is not to die.) I can only pretend that he doesn't know any of my weaknesses. That he doesn't have any sort of power over me.

I pretend anyway.

"Will you play a game of Monopoly with me?"

A breath.

The clock is ticking – seconds draining away and I focus on it. With every _tick_ I take in a breath, with every _tock_ I exhale. My eyes remain fixed on his, and I take care to not clench my fists. Tick, in, tock, out-

Playing with fake money and fake property when I have nothing; a game of pretence, that anything belongs to me. He wants to _play Monopoly_, calling me into this forbidden room like a puppy dogging his heels, to play a game that I have never had much interest in. He has taken everything away from me – not even my name or my body is fully mine anymore.

And now he wants to play _Monopoly_.

Is he trying to _mock_ me?

I don't smile. He expects me to, but I don't. He expects me to be happy about this – that much is obvious. I don't understand him. Who will be happy about such things? This is like throwing pig ball to a cat. Everything he does frustrate me. It reminds me of my chains, rubbing against my skin, chafing against me.

I hate him.

But still I say, "Of course," because we are playing a game.

When he smiles and puts the money in my hands, I think of stuffing the paper down his throat. I think of suffocating him with fake money when I have nothing. I think of killing him with the counters and the cards and I realize why he has chosen Monopoly.

He wins.

As always.

* * *

_ii. Night_

I'm not very good at telling stories. I don't like starting in the beginning. I start when I want to, at whatever point I want to, because this is my story to tell. Even though I don't want to tell it; even though I wish this is something entirely different, it is still my story and I can do anything I like to it.

I used to live like that, being able to do what I want. There used to be a world like that, a world that is mine to live in. A world in which I can be whatever I want to be, do whatever I wish to do; follow no rules but my own.

That world doesn't exist anymore. There's only Gilead now.

I'm not so weak as to dream of returning to the past. The past reminds me of who I am; the present is what I live in; the future is what I think of.

My name is Hibari Kyouya – _is_, because I will never admit to 'Ofdino'. I am not chattel, no matter how much they try to force me to be. I will never _submit_.

They only have power over me if I let them. I won't let them.

This is my mantra every night before I go to sleep.

* * *

_iii. Shopping_

They let us out once in a while, opening the cage while keeping a tight leash. Little harmless errands to be run, to keep us busy and occupied so we won't have time to think.

There is an umbrella rack beside a door: black for the Commander, blue for the Commander's Wife, and red for me. Our lives are colour-coded, neatly compartmentalized with premade rules that I can't change or fight against. There's no sign of rain today – the sky is bright blue like the Wife's umbrella. (We depend on the skies for weather reports, nowadays. There's no radio or television, and the Internet is a pipe dream.

Progress.)

I draw up my veil and adjust the wings around my face. In the house I can go bare-headed – no one cares what my face looks like; it is inconsequential. But outside... I place my hand on the doorknob and push it open.

The sun is bright above my head, hot and stifling, but I can no longer see the skies. The veil and wings stop others from seeing, and they also stop me from looking. Like blinkers on horses, forcing me to only look forward. Our eyes must not stray; a stray eye costs lives.

Ahead of me, lingering at the edges of the forbidden, is a man. He is pruning the plants, snipping at branches with the sharp blades of garden shears. They allow men weapons in this house. Not women, never women – we are to be protected, to be coddled and swaddled in wool. They don't know what we might do with such things.

I want an edge; I live on an edge.

His hair is brown, and he's humming, the sleeves of his uniform pulled up and the first few buttons undone. I let my eyes linger on his throat and on his collarbones, then drifting upwards to look at that wide smile. He can still smile like he's free. I want to steal his smile.

I know his name: _Yamamoto_. I've heard the Marthas of the house call him that. I've heard the Commander and his Wife call him that: _Yamamoto, take care of the car_, or _Yamamoto, set the gardens right today_. I curl the name around my tongue – _from the mountain_ – and I watch his arms as he uses the shears.

He has a name, still.

I turn my face away and walk down the path out of the house, down towards town. I count my steps with my breathing – a breath for each step – before I stop at the Wall. There are three men here today, hanging from a pole limply with bags covering their heads. It's not for the sake of privacy that they cover the heads – the dead are inconsequential except as warning signs – but for the sake of propriety.

What propriety? I want to tear down those masks. I want to see their bloated faces, lolling and half-rotten. I want to see the corpses with their broken necks and bodies twisted from their last spasms. I sicken of masks. I want to see the truth.

There are footsteps coming up behind me and I turn my head just in time to see a flash of silver hair. She is shorter than I am and perhaps a little curvier, but from a distance we look the same – two dolls wrapped up in red, a basket on our arms, just like in the fairy tales. They call her Ofxanxus.

"Blessed be the fruit," her voice is a little hoarse, a little rough. The products of too much smoking, perhaps, or too much screaming. Either or, or perhaps even both. I don't know; I don't care. All we are left with are idle speculations to pass the time.

"May the Lord open," it's mechanical by now. Give in a little, say their expected greetings, and they will avert their eyes from you.

We walk together, and it is still strange. I am used to being alone. But there's no one is allowed to be alone for long nowadays. _We are a family_, Aunt Fuyu – named so for her blue hair – says. _Families are always together_.

I've never had a family.

She's walking beside me in short, jerky steps, as if she's used to something much longer, much freer. We both are a little unorthodox, a little disobedient, but not enough for them to try to break our necks. Handmaids are getting rarer and rarer, and we are precious. A national resource, like crude oil.

The shops ahead of us are laid in neat little white rows, with wooden signs in front showing pictures of what they sell. There used to be words, _Milk and Honey_, _All Flesh_, _Daily Bread_, but they have painted them out. I still remember them, hovering over the white spaces they used to be.

Like how we hover.

Down the streets, on the other side, someone else is leaving a store. She wears red too, but she's different from us. Her stomach curves outwards, swollen like an overripe fruit. The streets explode with whispering, hush and low, like hissing snakes. It's not surprising. I close my eyes, but it doesn't block the sounds.

"Who is she?"

"Isn't it obvious? She's Ofsky."

A soft hiss comes from beside me, venomous, "Show-off."

She's bitter; we're all bitter. Ofsky – the Handmaid of the one they call the 'Sky', the highest-ranked Commander in this world that we now live in. She's pregnant too – there's no need for her to be here. Those who have conceived are allowed to stay in the home, served on hands and foot. Birds in a comfortable gilded cage, willing to be chained. They disgust me. I restrain myself from spitting by the side – there's a gun near her.

She's cowering – a timid one – but her head is held high and her shoulders are straight. Ofxanxus is right – she _is_ here to show off. She has everything that we are supposed to want; she is filled, she is not empty. She will never be declared an Unwoman now. She has worth, wrapped around that swollen stomach of hers.

That's all we are valued for, these days.

I turn my head and catch her eyes. It is an accident, but I make it seem deliberate. _Everything is meant_. She has a wide blue eye, like a deer caught in the headlights. The other eye is covered by a small eyepatch – red. She shrinks away a little, but her gaze shift to my flat stomach still covered, and she shows triumph when she next looks at me.

I let her think she has won as she turns away. In that moment, I recognize her.

Back in the Red Centre, she has once called herself _Nagi_.

_TBC_


	2. Part 2 of 2

**The Chained Skylark's Tale   
**_[Part 2 of 2]_

**Character/Pairings: **Female!Hibari, Dino, Yamamoto, Bianchi, Chrome, female!Mukuro. Mentions of Reborn and Tsuna; Dino/female!Hibari, Dino/Bianchi, Reborn/Hibari, implied Tsuna/Chrome.**  
Rating: **R**  
Words:** 4878**  
Summary: "**Humans are stupid creatures – give them a little power, give them someone to lord over and they will remain your obedient slaves. Herbivores believing that they are carnivores; that they are more than prey." The life in Gilead as a Handmaid, as told by Hibari Kyouya Ofdino; a crossover/fusion with Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.  
**Warnings:** GENDERSWITCH, AU, dystopian world, crack that refuses to stay as crack

_iv. Night_

The moon outside is full, round like an oversized biscuit, hanging on the sky. I remember the legends of the old, of how there is supposed to be a rabbit inside the moon, watching over humanity. Or perhaps the rabbit is a beautiful woman, or a turtle, or a frog. Or maybe there's no rabbit at all.

Truth is relative.

They taught me that at the Red Centre. It's not one of the official lessons – of course not, they will never teach us _useful_ things – but it is something that I have learnt, nonetheless.

She was there too – Ofsky. One of our little role models, gentle and docile and obedient, sitting demure with her legs tucked in neatly to her side. She has always been one of the Aunts' favourites. They called her Nagi. We still had our names, then.

(I don't use say that she calls herself Nagi, because that's not what defines us. The names that others use for us are our true names; our own opinions aren't important enough to matter. After all, we are merely vassals.

Or so they say.

I am not Ofdino.)

The strongest image I have of her are her tears streaking her cheeks during a Testifying. She is sobbing, hands trying to cover her face as she blubbers out a story of how she used to be abused by her stepfather, of how she was raped, of everything she has gone through.

_Your fault, your fault, your fault_, the chant went on endlessly, egged on by Aunt Haru and resounding around the room. I only mouthed the words – I am not an herbivore, so easily taken in by crowd instincts. But I mouthed the words still, because choice, too, is relative.

But all I could think of at that time – and now, even - was how utterly weak she was. I despised her for her tears; I despise her for how she timidly admitted she was at fault even though any reasonable person knows she wasn't. I despise her for breaking so easily, for bending over to the system and _submitting_ like the weakling she is.

They are all the same, crawling on their hands and knees for scraps. Crawl faster and more pitifully and they will hand you little scraps, one at a time. That's how she becomes Ofsky; the most obedient, the best 'assimilated' – they belong to the highest ranking commanders. Rebels are isolated and placed in households that ensure their misery. It's their form of punishment.

The carrot and the stick, as traditions dictate. One must always be tradition. They treat people like donkeys.

I don't want to be a donkey.

I want to be the master, holding the stick and the carrot.

I think of Nagi and her swollen belly like a full moon. I think of her ensured eternal servitude to _them_. I look at the moon. If I have to live that life, I'd rather be dead.

I live for the chance to be free again.

When I turn my head, I can see the shape of the Eye, carved onto my bedpost, on my closet, and hanging on my wall. There is one on my ankle as well, burning hot against the skin.

_The Lord's eyes are everywhere._

I wish for a knife to slash them out. All of them.

* * *

_v. Ceremony_

She hates me.

Her hair, long and light red, spills down her shoulders as she sits on the bed. Pillows surround her like a Queen, and in her hand is a Bible. She is not reading it – no, not even Wives are allowed to do that.

I stand at the side of the bed. I am supposed to kneel, but she can't force me. Not these little things. She hates me but she _needs_ me. She needs me because I have something she wants. I run my hand over my hips, tracing the curve and I feel her eyes follow me. Her fingers are tight around the book, knuckles white. I hide my smile within my veil, vicious and vindictive.

There is something between the two of us; a history – they like to call it that, _his_tory – that runs for longer than this government has been alive.

The door opens and the Commander steps in, closing the door behind him. He leans against it. We are both looking at him, and I know he can feel the tension in the room, heavy and poisonous. But he doesn't admit it; he never does. The bedroom is the Wife's domain, and the Commander has no authority here.

Or so they say. Lies, of course, just to placate the Wives and keep them quiet. Humans are stupid creatures – give them a little power, give them someone to lord over and they will remain your obedient slaves. Herbivores believing that they are carnivores; that they are more than prey.

Only the Commander holds power in this house.

She hands the Bible to him, with a soft gesture and a cold smile. He doesn't touch her hand when he takes it, walking over to sit down by his armchair by the side of the bed. _His_, because no one else sits on it; no one else is allowed to.

"God blessed them, 'Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth'," he reads from the Bible. It's always the same lines, the same stories of God speaking of children, of fertility. I watch her out of the corner of my eyes, and my hands itch for the feel of metal again. It's becoming almost a tangible craving, something _harmful_ and clawing at my insides. I feel like a drug addict.

But what I crave is simply control.

The Commander has stopped, turning over the page. He clears his throat, but he doesn't look up. He knows that we are both listening.

"And when Rachel saw that she bear Jacob no children, Rachel envied her sister; and said unto Jacob, Give me children, or else I die." I don't smile at that. There's nothing to smile at, because it is not _her_ who will die in the end.

I will be the one to die.

They call them Unwomen, those who have been proven to be infertile; useless. _Yours is a position of honour_, I can still remember Aunt Haru saying, her voice chiding, finger wagging in our faces. Of course we are; we are valuable.

But we are not valued.

The Commander turns the page, "And she said, Behold my maid Bilhah, go in unto her; and she shall bear upon my knees, that I may also have children by her."

I close her eyes at the closing of the Bible. _Thud_, another door closing on me, another link removed from the leash. My breath chokes in my throat. There is a shifting of cloth, and another _thud_ as he sets the book down on the table.

"Now in the eyes of the Lord that runs throughout the Earth, we will ask for a blessing, and for success in all ventures," we clap out hands together, closing our eyes and bowing our heads in mock prayer. None of us are praying; none of us believe in god anymore.

I hope silently for failure.

***

The Ceremony carries on.

I am lying on my bed, splayed opened and red still like fresh roadkill. I am fully clothed except for the regulation underwear they have given all of us to wear. She is lying beneath me, my head on top of her womb and our hands entwined like a pair of lovers, like we are one. But we are not lovers and we are not one. The feel of her hands in mine is a noose tightening around my throat. She is in control, so I am not.

If I care to open my eyes, I will see the Commander's shirt. He's wearing white again today, with a black tie. It reminds me of those criminals that I used to destroy, with their pressed suits, hidden guns and clear malice, pretending to be civilised. The comparison amuses me.

I don't care to open my eyes.

I think of my name. My real name, the one I have chosen for myself. Neither the name they call me now, nor the name they have called me three years ago.

_Close your eyes and think of England._

I think of her, she who is lying above and yet below me. They called her Bianchi – _white_ – for her pale skin. She used to be a model, a conservative one who has never appeared in photographs with her clothes off (of course, of course). She used to sing too, crooning ballads about God. She used to be a beautiful Catholic woman, married to the perfect man with black hair, black eyes and the most charming smile; Catholic, of course – what else?

She used to be a lot of things. She used to be my lover's wife. Or perhaps I should put it this way – I used to be her husband's lover.

I used to be a lot of things, too.

My red skirt is hiked up to my waist. No higher, for the sake of propriety. What propriety is in this, I don't know. I have never known.

I wonder if the Commander likes the sight of the both of us, lying together like corpses on his wife's bed. I wonder when he is going to come. What is he thinking about when he fucks me? Does he fantasize?

His long blond hair is brushing against my face and I want to rip off the strands. Maybe it will make him bleed; it will definitely make me feel better.

He finally comes with a grunt, like swine. None of them are better than swine. Swine in cages that they pretend are not there.

For a moment he still looms over us before he pulls away. There is an apology written in his features when I open my eyes, but I ignore it, turning away. I can feel Bianchi breathe as he gets off the bed and leaves the room, closing the door behind him quietly. Like we are a pair of porcelain figures that will shatter at the first loud sound.

She lets me lie down on the bed for another half an hour, her hands on my shoulders preventing me to leaving. This is in accordance to the rules; there are some that she won't allow me to break. After all, she wants a child.

She wants a child so she will be able to get rid of me. So there won't be any more Handmaids.

I close my eyes again and think of black hair and black eyes. I think of killing her now and escaping out the window. I think of being shot dead in the middle of the streets. The blood will match the colour of this dress. Blood that defines us; blood is a mark of failure.

Morbid thoughts are my usual bedfellows; they help pass the time quickly. Her hands leave my shoulders and I dress quickly – only one thing to put back on. I can feel his come slipping down my thighs.

It's hard to resist slamming the door when I leave.

_

* * *

vi. Night_

There's a contradiction that I've found: they want us to be fruitful and productive, yet they leave us with nothing to do. It's one of the many contradictions that they think that we won't realize.

I'm bored out of my mind.

My mind turns backwards, into the past. Like a faulty film reel; there's no 'forward', only 'rewind', never 'stop'. There are no films anymore. There used to be, just like there used to be a lot of things, but even films have been taken away from us since we left the Red Centre.

They used to show us films of women from 'before Gilead' – that's how they named it. Like they are Jesus Christ; like they are saviours who rescued us. They used to show us snuff films, of women being cut open, nipples sliced off and blood staining everywhere. They showed us pornography of women being gangrape; women on her knees; women with cocks in their mouths, crying and screaming. They like to show us these things, parading that this is what they have saved us from.

(This is not a pretty story. This is not a nice story. This is my story and I tell it however I want it to. I'm telling it to all of you whom I'm imagining exists out there, hearing my voice telling you this and cringing because of what I have just said. Maybe you are out there, maybe you're not, but I won't change a word of this.)

"You're all safe now," Aunt Haru always tells us, with a bright, false smile and wagging her finger. Her teeth always glints in the meagre lights we are given. "Such lucky girls, all of you, chosen by God and protected by him.

"Such lucky girls."

I don't feel very lucky.

The bed creaks as I turn over.

She used to hate those films when they play, that Nagi. She used to cry and cry, never stopping until her single eye is all red and her face blotchy and ugly. They used to sneer at her, the good girls, but their sneers don't cover up the shaking hands. They are scared too, all of them.

There are only two who are unaffected by everything they try to shove down our throats. Me, of course, and Mukuro.

The clearest memory I have of her is with a cigarette on her hand, leaning back against the railing as she smiles – an ugly, wide stretch of the lips that is not meant to be beautiful – at the pile of unconscious men beneath our feet. She's used to blood, used to spilling it and being covered with it.

We both are.

This town used to be mine. It used to be called Namimori – _the middle forest_ – but now it's called Elim, belonging to _them_. Criminals used to run abundant here, from large yakuza families to triads to little gangs, stealing and killing. It used to be considered dangerous to walk alone at night if one is a woman, because you might be killed or worse, raped.

Now it's dangerous for an entirely different reason. The Guardians shoot anyone who appears out of their house after nightfall. Unless they are Commanders, of course.

I am not a sentimental person, but there are memories that will never leave my mind. At the Red Centre, when I have overstepped their illogical boundaries and I tire of dwelling on the pain, I will think of them. Now, whenever boredom strikes, I will think of them.

It reminds me of who I am not.

I can still remember the feel of metal in my hand and the smell of blood, clear and harsh in the air. The sound of bones breaking, of the screams of men as I punished them for their transgressions – I can still remember every bit of it, hot and sharp on my tongue and month. It's a feeling that runs down my spine and shoots through my veins, almost like adrenaline. It's something _visceral_; something that tells me that I am _free_.

It's what keeps me sane. It's what stops me from running into the kitchen and taking the knife and slaughtering the entire household for daring to tie me down and reducing me to _this_. I want to feel it again, the rush and the adrenalin and if I'm dead, I will never be able to.

I'm not so foolish.

In those memories, Mukuro is sometimes there, with her cigarettes and her ridiculous trident and annoying laughter. I don't know how many of the criminals we have disposed of between the two of us, but the numbers are high enough to serve as a warning against crime. That was the power that women had – that _we _had.

We didn't fight as vigilantes – we have never wanted to save anyone, or make the streets safer for the citizens. I fought because Namimori is _mine_, and I had no tolerance for trespassers who break my rules. For Mukuro, it's an entirely different matter: it's a game. For her, everything is a game, like she has lived a thousand lives and has ceased to take anything in the world to be more than just a game of chance. Like she has never had any faith at all, and nothing the world does will ever surprise her.

I used to hate her for it. A raw, burning hatred at the base of my throat; a lump that I cannot spit out.

Yet she was the one who escaped in the end, from the Red Centre. When I heard of her escape, I hated her all the more, fire burning in my veins until I can't breathe for the smoke.

I hate her still.

What does it say about me, I wonder?

Perhaps that I have to work harder to break my chains.

_

* * *

vii. Jezebel's_

We are playing Monopoly in his room, behind locked doors as if we are a pair of clandestine lovers. The Commander is shuffling the cards with slow, even movements. He isn't looking at me. He picks a counter; I pick another.

"I have a request to make," he says after a long silence has passed. Not once has he ever called me by my name. He has never called me 'Ofdino' either.

I watch as he rolls the dice in his hands. I wonder if he is deciding my fate with them. I don't answer him; I'm not required too.

He tosses the dice, _eleven_, and his little top hat moves to _Milk and Honey_. He shakes his head and waves a hand. (He is letting me win.) I pick up the dice, and throw.

"Tomorrow Bianchi will be visiting one of the Wives," he speaks as if this is a normal conversation. "I'll like you to go somewhere with me."

My hand stops mid-movement. The dice rolls back into my palm. I turn my head and look into his eyes.

"Do I have a choice?" I sound bored, impassive; it takes some effort.

He smiles at me like he wants to apologise. He does not say 'of course', because he doesn't like lying; the coward.

I roll the dice.

"Alright."

The car ends up at the Wall.

***

It's like adultery, I suppose. Or something not unlike it.

I watch as the Commander's Wife leave the house in her little blue mobile, her husband's (what a meaningless word, now and even then, between us) package sitting heavily on my lap. What will she do, I wonder, if I decide to tell her where her husband plans on taking me tonight? Will she cry? Will she scream and shout? Or will she keep her silence and simply smile, like the good Wife she's supposed to be?

Will she try to kill me? Or will she try to kill _him_?

I smile at those thoughts, because they amuse me. My only entertainment comes from my thoughts, these days. I have nothing else; they forbid everything, as if I'm a porcelain doll that shouldn't be touched, or else I'll break.

_Once broken, considered sold_.

I'm a little doll dressed in silks, hidden in the dollhouse.

I wait for the night to fall.

***

We are going there by car, because the Commander has never known how to not be conspicuous. Or perhaps it's because he has a statement to make. Or maybe he just thinks it convenient. I don't know; nothing is certain anymore.

There used to be certainty in this world, when truth is 'out there' and not 'imagined'. The world used to run on rules that I can accept, and the rules that I can't, I had the power to change. But now...

Now the world doesn't run along any discernable logic. Now 'truth' and 'the rules' are both entirely muddled. I don't even know what they are anymore, much less be able to accept them.

Yet this isn't a world that I can remake to my world liking. Not yet, at least. Or perhaps I should say 'not ever'. No-

Nothing is certain.

And now the gardener – whose name is Yamamoto, I still remember – is opening the car door for me, dressed up in gloves and a suit. He gives me a smile like he is still free, like I'm as free as him and I imagine pressing my hands against his throat until his face turns blue and that irritating smile fades away.

I smile back; a common courtesy.

The Commander sits in the front seat. He is trying to be considerate, I think, and I try not to laugh.

We get out of the car soon enough, and I am hustled through a back entrance and down what seems to be endless corridors. The Commander (Yamamoto doesn't come with us; he's not allowed to) doesn't take my arm, simply striding down the hallways. I follow in this ridiculous outfit, holding the shawl closer to my body. I am not wearing high heels; he's not so stupid as to give me weapons.

When we finally stop, it is in front of a heavy iron door. I eye it, standing beside the Commander with my fists clenched and lips thin. The guards are raking their eyes up and down my body. I want to punch in their teeth.

The door opens and I step into what seems a courtyard. There's a fountain in the middle, spraying water that is coloured pinks and greens and blues by the lights below. There are plants everywhere – in pots, in vines running up and down the walls and hanging from balconies. In the distance, elevators move up and down.

And then there are the women, crowding and herding everywhere in the courtyard. They are dressed like clowns, with white wings and devil tails and cat ears, like they are trying to be festive but can't quite manage it. Their faces are slathered with make up so thick that it must hurt them to move their heads.

There is so much skin exposed in this room. My lips curl up in disgust.

"This is fun, isn't it?" the Commander says beside me, smiling that soft, optimistic smile and sounding delighted. "It's magnificent."

I look at the crowd in front of me; look at the women – surely those who have rebelled and failed, and are still attractive enough to be kept. I turn back to him – is _this_ what he thinks to be 'magnificent'?

And he still asks me why I hate him so. The fool. I turn again to stare at the women – not because I want to look at them, but to avoid looking at _him_. Then-

I see _her_.

I leave the Commander's side immediately, striding into the crowd. I grit my teeth at everything – at the feel of bodies pressing against mine, at the stuffiness and the sheer disgust I feel at their appearance. To have lowered themselves to this...

She is wearing black – a black corset, long leather stockings, a whip hanging on the side of her hip. There's a cigarette in her hand, and she doesn't turn towards me. She knows that I am here; that much I can tell.

I have known her for long enough to know.

"Rokudo Mukuro," I hiss quietly. She turns to me, and those eyes turn to mine. She smiles, and takes a drag of her cigarette.

My hands clench into fists.

"You're supposed to have escaped," I say. That's what they tell all of us, as a warning. Rokudo Mukuro escaped from the Red Centre by killing Aunt Natsu – a broken neck and a cracked skull, caused by a length of pipe from the bathroom. She will be shot on sight, they tell us; no more second chances.

_Those who disobey their parents will be stoned to death_.

They were lying. As always.

She only laughs, twirling that cigarette in her hand like it is a flag, taunting me. My lips thin, and I ignore the rules I am supposed to be following. I want too badly to punch her, to take away the smile on her lips, but I can't – I _won't_ – do that here.

I drag her into the bathroom and slam the door shut.

The cigarette is still on her hand, and she's smiling still, like the world is one great big joke and she's the only one who understands the punchline. She's smiling like she has always smiled; as if nothing has changed yet everything has.

"You want me to explain myself, don't you?" she waves the cigarette, laughing.

I slam her shoulder against the wall and savour the sound of her skull hitting the ceramic tiles. She doesn't stop me and merely grimaces, dropping the cigarette and grinding it beneath her high platform shoes.

Rokudo Mukuro shrugs, "What do you want to hear, Hibari Kyouya? I escaped, and I was caught again. They made me an offer I didn't refuse."

Something _snaps_. I try to slam her against the wall again, but she catches my wrists. Her smile is twisted, ugly and insincere. I jerk my hands away, and she lets me go.

"Then you should have _run faster_," I growl. I'm not angry; I'm so much more than that. I am _furious_, so much that my vision is tinted with red.

I have never wanted so badly to have my tonfas in my hand.

"Should I have?" she sounds almost surprised. "Kufufu... I get to survive here. They give me everything I need – food, cigarettes, sex. I even get to whip people on a regular basis," her hand runs down her hip, caressing the whip like a lover. I feel nauseous.

She flicks her hair away from her eyes, careless and flippant like nothing in the world matters. I clench my hand into a fist. "You _coward_. Are you going to bow down to them, then? Stay here for all of your life, to be used as a sex toy for the men."

She shrugs, "Why not?"

My nails bite into my palm as I draw my hand back to punch her in her face. Her hand comes up and grips on my wrist mid-swing again, and she leans down.

"You don't have the room to judge me, Hibari Kyouya," she drawls, still calm but there's a light in her eyes, almost like fire. Her lips are drawn back into a small, ugly smile.

"You're the same. No, you're worse."

"No," I spit out, jerking my hand out of her grasp. I'm not playing her mind games. I am so terribly _sick_ of games. "I'm different. I'm not giving up."

Leaning back against the bathroom tiles, Rokudo Mukuro laughs, "Kufufufu... so says the Handmaid. Isn't that right, _Ofdino_?"

My hands close around her throat immediately, but I don't squeeze. Anger is running white hot through my veins, but I restrain myself. It's easier now; I have had a lot of practice.

"I'm not a weakling like you," I hiss up to her. I have never hated anyone so much. Not Bianchi, or even the Commander. Only this woman.

She has given in, and she is _proud_ of it. Proud of it as if what we have both done in the past doesn't matter; as if all we are good for is sex and the bearing of children, being nothing better than dolls and toys in the hands of men. As if that is all that she – _I_ – can do.

A matter of survival; the barest of luxuries... just for those things, she's willing to be chained. She's willing to be _property_, to belong to someone or even the government. Willing to survive for survival's sake.

My fingers want so terribly to squeeze.

"I won't ever give in. They can try to chain me as much as they want, but I will never give in," I grit out and I can feel the laugh bubbling in her throat, hot and hysterical and I release her, trembling all over.

The grinding of my own teeth is loud in the stall.

I slam the door open and storm out. I can feel her eyes on me, dancing with amusement and no little animosity. I can hear her laughter, aimed at me, broken madness in her tone and I resist smashing my fist against the wall.

I have once thought that perhaps she is as strong as I am. She has escaped but she isn't dead. Once, she was a beacon of hope for those in the Red Centre. It's possible for us to escape – to be free, like her. Yet now...

They have won another battle, this Gilead and that Commander who claims to own me. They have won this battle against what used to be known as Rokudo Mukuro but who is nothing but a pathetic shell, complacent and mad.

But they won't ever win the war. There _must_ be a way.

I will find a way to be free. I will find a way to break these chains.

Because I am not a weakling like _she_ is.

_End_


End file.
